


Shag Me

by TheBraveHobbit



Series: Taut [17]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gen, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-14
Updated: 2013-07-14
Packaged: 2017-12-20 03:44:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/882549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBraveHobbit/pseuds/TheBraveHobbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Shag Me<br/>Pairing: Jehan/Bahorel<br/>Summary: Jehan and Bahorel are learning their way around each other’s bodies and defining boundaries. Also there’s lacy underwear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shag Me

**Author's Note:**

> Part of my sandbox-style Modern!AU: Taut  
> Additional content can be found on my tumblr: elfjolras.tumblr.com

Jehan never dated straight guys. That had been her policy since she’d been in grade school, and it was her mother’s idea. It was a good one; when she limited herself to dating queer men, Jehan didn’t always have to stumble through explanations of anatomy and gender and was less likely to have to defend herself. Straight guys might not be safe. Straight guys might not understand. Straight guys made things complicated.

Besides, there were plenty of queer men around. Usually. Even if she didn’t want to date any of them. Grantaire was always on call if she needed anything, no strings attached. She didn’t have to risk herself by getting involved with straight guys.

So how had this happened? Bahorel was most definitely a straight man. She knew. She’d asked.

Letting herself get close to him had been a terrible idea, and she’d known it from the beginning. He was too unpredictable, too wild. She’d broken his arm and all he’d done was insist on a coffee date. Jehan had done everything she could to sabotage the situation, had tried to frighten him off by showing him the most raw and honest and ugly parts of herself that she could bear to expose. She told him she didn’t trust straight men because of her father. She’d mentioned her drug use and boldly exposed the scars on her wrists when she handed him his mug. He’d just run his thumb along them and said, “Demons, huh? I’ve got a few myself.” and pulled her to a table in the sun.

‘You fall in love too easy,’she despaired.

It was entirely true. There are so many types of love, and Jehan was helpless before all of them.

‘You’ve only got the one rule,’she berated herself.

Actually, she had several, and she never followed any of them.

‘You’re going to regret this,’she tried to warn herself.

It didn’t matter. She wanted him. He infuriated and amazed and fascinated her, and she found herself savoring the taste of insurrection that lay so heavy on his tongue.

She liked the taste of his skin, too. It was full of lingering warmth and red sun and even though there was snow piling in the windowsill, she swore Bahorel tasted like the beginning of autumn and the ending of summer as she traced her lips along his jaw. His throat vibrated beneath her teeth and she grinned against the dark ink there, pleased by the animalistic noises she could tease from him, even just by pinning him with her knees. She had to be careful of the space between their hips still. She didn’t trust her body enough to allow them to meet. The lace lining of her panties was already getting tight.

Piled on her couch like clumsy teenagers, the difference in their heights was much less meaningful, though his broad shoulders spanned more than the width of the cushions, and he reached to pull her down to him, the plaster of his cast snagging on the coarse wool of her sweater.

She stiffened momentarily before letting him close that distance, dropping her hips beneath the pressure of his palm. If he noticed her hesitation he gave no sign. His good hand worked up her shirt, tracing the line of her morning glories as if from memory, dancing from her hip to run along her ribcage, slipping to tease the clasp of her bra. They’d been here before, she was comfortable with it.

“You wanna move this party?”

She bit him, bruising his neck before she nodded her assent into his shoulder. He hooked his arms under her knees and pulled her up with him, having no trouble supporting her weight as he stood. She had to wrap her legs around his waist to keep her feet from dragging, further tightening the distance between them. She tried not to think about it, and busied herself with tangling the length of his undercut in her fingers and tasting the skin that lined his collarbone.

Jehan didn’t have a proper bedroom, because she’d never properly moved into her apartment. Permanence was an impossibility for mortal beings such as they, and roots were for flowers. Jehan liked knowing she could flit away on a breath, and so she owned very little in the way of furniture. Once she’d gotten the mattress in, she’d hadn’t bothered with sheets, only dumped a pile of quilts at the foot of the bed. There was only one pillow and no frame. She didn’t even have a dresser; all her clothes were stacked in little wicker baskets or hung in various places about her room. A tall mirror was leaned precariously against one wall, and Bahorel kicked aside a short pile of her textbooks as he made his way towards the mattress, stumbling as he knocked his toes into it. They pitched forward, landing in a heap of quilts and breathless laughter, Bahorel astride her and pinning her to the mattress with his weight centered at their hips.

His hands were still moving—he was amazingly deft, even with one wrist immobilized—and Jehan’s sweater flew across the room. She shuddered as he moved his mouth down her skin, leaving a trail of faint bruises intermingled in the vine of her tattoo. It was all she could do to keep from bucking her hips into his weight. She looped her fingers through the waist of his pants, thinking of how much she’d like to help him out of them.

Before she could, Bahorel dropped his hands, circling her wrists and pushing them away. “Hold on.” His voice was deeper than hers, textured with edges that he had never bothered to polish away, and he whistled through the gap in his front teeth. “I want to try something.”

Bahorel released her wrists and ran his hands along her legs, toying for a minute with the stockings bound up at her thighs before sliding up her skirt, his eyes locked onto hers. He was wearing that same feral, wicked expression that sat so naturally across his crooked lips. Whatever he was planning, he was already smug about it.

Jehan, for her part, was somewhat frozen. Panic seemed the natural reaction, as if she hadn’t already had this conversation with him, as if he might be surprised by what he found down there. The reason she didn’t date straight men. Her teeth dug into her lower lip, but she let him continue as he lifted the fabric of her skirt and lowered his face. She lost sight of him, and the sudden brush of his lips against the inside of her thigh made her gasp, releasing a breath she had not realized she was holding.

“These are nice,” he murmured, running a finger under the lace that crossed her hipbone, snapping it back down sharply. “But I’m not sure if you’re supposed to wear them or floss with them.”

“Why don’t you try?” Jehan couldn’t help the retort any more than she could help the sudden jerk of her hips as she felt his teeth brush against her, scraping down her leg as he moved her panties out of his way, sliding them down to her ankles and over her feet using nothing more than his mouth, his hands braced at her hips.

Jehan watched as he kissed his way back up her legs, stopping at her knees to lift his eyes again. He was still looking sly, but there was something else there too.

“Okay?” he asked.

“Amazing.” She answered, feeling her skin warm and closing her eyes as he lowered his lips again.


End file.
